


Say It Out Loud

by Itsallfine



Series: A Holiday Triptych [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Love Confessions, M/M, Mummy Holmes is devious, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, POV John Watson, Past Relationships, So is Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13387344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: John needs proof of Sherlock’s feelings before he can make a move. Mummy Holmes is only too happy to provide, and works her devious magic on New Year’s Eve.It doesn’t take much.(All fics in this series are stand-alone)





	Say It Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second fic in a series of three holiday fics based on American Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. They’re all unrelated, first time get-together stories set in the nebulous “good times” when John lives at Baker Street. Sorry for posting this 15 days after the new year!
> 
> Thanks once again to wiscolina for the beta read.

 

The scenery along the roads leading to the Holmes house was undoubtedly beautiful. Evening sun spilled across the horizon, alighting on cottages and cows to paint a charmingly rustic scene. A sunny winter day was a rarity in England, one to be savored.

One that John Watson completely ignored in favor of his phone.

“Who are you texting?” Sherlock demanded, looking away from the road to peer over at John’s phone.

John tilted his phone away. “Eyes on the road, madman.”

Sherlock huffed, but complied, giving his curls a toss to emphasize his irritation. “There. Eyes on road. Who are you texting? Is it Mrs. Hudson? Has her pompous nephew finally driven her to murder? Tell her to make it interesting, at least.”

John ignored him and sent one last text.

_This is my last chance to back out. You’re absolutely sure?_

     Mrs. Holmes:  
_John, dear, you’re being tiresome._

     Mrs. Holmes:  
_I am completely sure._

     Mrs. Holmes:  
_Now don’t text me again, love. Keep it together_.

John fought to keep his face neutral, the corner of his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. He turned his phone off and stashed it in his left back pocket, as far from Sherlock as it could possibly get while remaining on his person.

Sherlock would not be so easily dissuaded, though, so John deployed one of his recently acquired distraction techniques: physical contact.

He laid a hand on Sherlock’s leg and gave a light squeeze, relishing the soft slide of expensive fabric under his fingers. Sherlock froze for half a second, then relaxed, his legs falling ever so slightly farther apart. His face stayed perfectly blank, bored, but his breathing hitched the tiniest bit—a tell John had learned to look for, a tiny seed of hope that had grown into a tangled wanting that suffocated on the best of days and ached without relent on the worst.

It could still be something else. Friendship. Touch starvation. He could even be uncomfortable with the touch but unwilling to say. But sometimes, rarely, Sherlock would give the smallest sign. The corner of his mouth turned slightly up, a brush of fingers against John’s, a faint hum. It took all of John’s considerable self-control to keep his hand from sliding higher in search of a gasp, a blush, a—something. He _wanted_ , and the wanting was a fearsome thing.

Distraction. Music, conversation, something, or else John really would let his hands wander and his mouth betray him, probably crash the car and their friendship all in one dramatic move. He pulled back and cast about for a topic for discussion.

“So, what do you think your parents have planned for tonight? Anything special? New Year’s Eve traditions?”

“My grandmother used to visit and cook elaborate French feasts for New Year’s Eve and Day when I was a child. I hear Mummy still cooks oysters and scallops. They used to do foie gras, too, before they decided it was inhumane.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I would have to pass on that.”

A small smile curled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I haven’t been back for New Year’s Eve since I was seventeen, but I imagine we’ll eat too much at supper and drink too much champagne in front of the fire while Mummy murders us all at cards.”

Sherlock glanced over. “They’re likely to be embarrassingly clingy with you tonight. I hope you’re prepared.”

John looked out the window to hide his grin.

“I don’t mind.”

 

 

 

The car had barely come to a stop when the front door opened. Mummy Holmes came out first, wrapped in a shawl and heading straight for Sherlock’s side of the car. Father followed close behind in his shabby brown jacket, and he wrapped John in a hug the second his car door closed behind him.

“So good to see you, John, truly,” he said, thumping him hard on the back. “I hear my wife has been meddling.”

Sherlock’s head shot up from where it had been resting against his mother’s in a rare show of affection, and he stepped back from her hug like she’d attacked him.

“Meddling _how_?” he demanded, but his mother waved him off dismissively.

“You never would have shown up if I hadn’t gotten John to bring you and you know it.” With that, she turned her back on her son to wrap John in a long motherly hug.

“Don’t you dare ask it again, John, I mean it!” she said in a low voice. “I see that look on your face. You remember the deal and do your part. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” John replied as he pulled back from the hug, catching a glimpse of Sherlock over his mother’s shoulder in the moment before he mastered his expression. It was just a brief thing, a stolen snatch of time, but Sherlock’s face had gone unbearably soft at the sight of his parents embracing John. John already felt at home in a way he never had before, not even with his own family, and Sherlock’s expression seemed to say _I want this, be my family, this is right, please stay forever._

If all went well, they would both get what they wanted.

John pulled their cases from the boot and handed Sherlock’s over, not letting go until their fingers touched. “Shall we get settled?”

Sherlock’s gaze was oddly charged when their eyes met, and he nodded.

 

 

 

Mummy was a devious one, John had to hand it to her. The house was romantically lit with candles and fairy lights, a fire crackling in the fireplace, the last of the fading sunlight leaving everything dim and warm and cozy.

Including the bedroom.

Singular.

John had expected a lot of things, but the dusty wreck of a construction zone in Mycroft’s room was not one of them.

“What _happened?”_ he asked, eyes wide.

Mummy closed the door to the room with a gentle click, a cloud of plaster dust puffing out. “Mycroft has been saying for years that he hardly needs his own bedroom here anymore and that we should just turn it into a proper guest room already. He had _opinions_ on the structure and layout. You know your brother.”

She patted Sherlock on the cheek with an indulgent smile. “Sherlock’s old bed is plenty big enough for two. Now, put those things down, I want you downstairs for supper in ten minutes.”

And with that, she whirled away and disappeared down the stairs, leaving behind a blushing John and a stiff, awkward Sherlock.

 _Here’s a chance,_ John told himself. _This is why you’re here._

“Come on,” he said, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder with a smile. “Let’s ditch these cases. Your mother is not someone to keep waiting.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his gaze flicking over John’s face. “I can sleep on the couch…” he finally offered, hesitant, but John cut him off.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

A beat of silence, then Sherlock snorted, and they broke down into ridiculous giggles. And there it was—an opportunity to be just a bit daring, to push the boundaries just a hair.

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, tugging him along as he walked backwards toward the bedroom.

“Come on, madman. You can handle me for one night.”

He pretended not to notice the way Sherlock stumbled at that, or the intense flush that stained his cheeks.

 

 

 

They went downstairs to join Sherlock’s parents shortly thereafter, following the bright scents of lemon and garlic and the clink of dishes and silverware. They’d barely crossed the threshold before Mummy was on them, ushering them to two seats at the dining table, romantically lit with candles and piled high with food and… presents?

“Were we supposed to bring a gift?” John leaned in to whisper before they took their assigned seats (across from each other rather than beside, bit odd.)

“No,” Sherlock clipped. “This is an ambush.”

They fell silent as Mummy took her seat beside Sherlock, and Father bustled in a moment later with another dish.

“Oysters to start with, dig in!”

He dropped the plate off directly between John and Sherlock, then retreated back into the kitchen for the main courses.

“Yes, mustn’t forget the oysters,” Mummy said. ”Traditional, delicious, and so many delightful _side benefits._ Eat up!”

Sherlock choked on his sip of wine at the implication, and John had to quietly admire Mummy’s gall. It was only the first shot of her volley, however.

“While we nibble on starters, why don’t you two open your gifts? Don’t be cross with me, Sherlock, I’m your mother and I can give you gifts when I want to.”

John kicked Sherlock under the table and cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Holmes, very kind of you.”

She beamed at him. “You are so welcome, John. Well, go on, just open everything all at once!”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and nodded toward  the two smaller presents, an envelope and a tall gift bag, while he grabbed the largest one. Sherlock stared at the gifts for a long moment, then reached for them slowly, as if expecting an attack. After a moment of ripping paper, John wasn’t entirely sure it _wasn’t._

Between the two of them sat a pair of tickets, a fine bottle of red wine, and a box with “Gousto: Savour Every Moment” along with a note:

_“We want you boys to stay healthy, and we know Sherlock never helps with the shopping, so we’ve bought you a month’s subscription to Gousto! Program details below:_

_Delicious meals for two!_  
_4 recipes per week_ _  
_ To select your recipes each week, go to…”

John gave a helpless little laugh. Mummy couldn’t have possibly chosen three more couple-y gifts, except maybe a two-person sleeping bag. He wouldn’t have put that past her, though. He shot her a quick look with raised eyebrows _—well played—_ and nudged Sherlock’s foot under the table.

“Are those tickets for the LSO’s Stravinsky program?” he asked. Sherlock looked up sharply, brows drawn together.

“How did you know?”

He grinned. “Every time their commercial comes on the telly, you stop whatever you’re doing to listen. I was going to buy you tickets myself next week, but here your mother’s beat me to it. Thanks very much,” he said, directing this last at her. “Three perfect choices for us.”

“Oh, come off it,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes but tucking the tickets carefully back in their envelope all the same. “You’re just happy you don’t have to row with the chip and pin machine for a month.”

John casually inched his hand across the table and flicked Sherlock, who promptly flicked him back, and so on until they were practically thumb wrestling like children. Finally, John laced his fingers through Sherlock’s and squeezed tight, raising a warning eyebrow. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but squeezed back.

And there they sat for a long moment, staring at their joined hands, both waiting for the other to let go first.

Neither did, until Mr. Holmes came back with the last of the dishes and set it between them.

“Dig in, boys!”

The conversation quickly moved on from there, covering Mummy’s research and Sherlock’s last case. Sherlock slowly recovered from the gift ambush, sinking easily into the deductions that had led to the capture of a female serial killer (a rarity that had thrown Sherlock at first) with a pattern of killing controlling lovers. The finale had been quite the show, and it had quickly become one of John’s most popular blog posts.

“Well,” Mummy said, dabbing at her mouth. “Obviously her methods were terrible, but I’m sure those people had something coming to them. Sherlock’s first boyfriend was like that, horribly controlling, I quite wanted to murder him myself.”

John’s heart leapt, and he snuck a glance across the table. Sherlock looked like he wanted to drown himself in his wine glass.

“Mummy,” he said warningly, but she barreled on.

“He took such advantage of my boy,” she continued, “but of course Sherlock wouldn’t hear a word against him. We all make mistakes in our early relationships, though. What about your first boyfriend, John?”

Well. They hadn’t talked about _that_ being part of the plan. Mummy’s grin was devious.

“Mummy,” Sherlock snapped again, visibly horrified. John waved him off, though, and met Mummy’s gaze with a slight nod, his heart aching for the young, vulnerable Sherlock who had his heart broken. Sherlock deserved his honesty after that revelation. Time to fulfill his part of the plan.

He took a deep breath.

“I’m embarrassed to admit, I’m not sure I could even call my first boyfriend a _boyfriend,_ considering there wasn’t much actual… _relationship_ to it,” he said, feeling his cheeks grow warm. Across from him, Sherlock went very, very still. “I’m afraid I was the arsehole of the pair with my next boyfriend, though. My parents weren’t exactly… I was…”

God, he’d never thought he’d actually have to put this stuff into words. People assumed easily enough, but Mummy obviously wasn’t going to rescue him. _Say it out loud,_ her expression seemed to say.

“My parents were quite traditional. They filled my head with all kinds of rubbish. Took me years to clean it all out. I’ve really only come to terms with things… quite recently.”

And this was the point, this was the _whole point_ of the trip, of the plan, but John suddenly felt flayed open, completely unable to look at Sherlock, sure that everything, absolutely _everything_ was written on his face. His breath came faster, and he gulped down the last of his wine. A panic attack right now would be truly embarrassing.

Sherlock’s father clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, John, but I’m glad you’ve found some peace.”

Mummy reached across the table to take his hand. “And you have us now, and we love you to pieces, so you never have to worry about that again. Now, who wants pie?”

There was a bustle of activity as Mummy and Father cleared the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen to gather the deserts, and the weight of Sherlock’s stare, of being alone with him, suddenly felt crushing. He pushed back from the table with the loud scape of wood on wood and stumbled to his feet.

“I’m… I just need…” he managed, gaze glued to the floor, but another scrape sounded, then there were two polished leather shoes in his view and a warm body just inches away.

“Don’t go,” Sherlock whispered. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then reached out and tipped John’s chin up with one bent finger. John was hit with the full force of Sherlock’s focus, his eyes seeming to beg for… something. “It’s all fine, right?”

John swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I never told you either. I assumed you knew.” A beat. “Did you?”

John looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged.

“I thought so, at first. Then there was Irene, and Janine, and I also wondered sometimes if you just… didn’t do that sort of thing. Asexual, aromantic.”

“No. Just gay. Boring.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and then they were off again, giggling like school children. And something about it all made John brave, because he stepped forward to brace his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, resting one hand on Sherlock’s hip as he laughed. Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, resting his cheek on the side of John’s head and wrapping one arm around John’s shaking shoulders. When Mr. and Mrs. Holmes arrived with the desserts, they broke apart, wiping their eyes, their chuckles trailing off.

The evening stretched into a lazy indulgence, with pie and coffee at the table, then cards and champagne in their pyjamas in front of the fireplace. John sat in the armchair while Sherlock sat on the floor in front of him, leaning against the left arm of the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and his cards clutched tight to his chest. They played hand after hand, and Sherlock drifted closer and closer until he was pressed hip to shoulder against John’s leg. When Sherlock smarted off one too many times, John shoved at the back of his head, then found himself wholly unable to pull his fingers from Sherlock’s hair, massaging gently at his scalp and running his fingers through soft curls. Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat and tipped his head up and to the side so his cheek rested on John’s thigh. The whole thing was so sweetly familiar and breathtakingly new that John’s veins thrummed with contented warmth and crackling possibility.

Was it the champagne? The warm glow of firelight? The intimacy of their shared secrets at dinner, or the comforting lull of home?

Whatever it was, Mummy looked terribly smug as she got to her feet and collected their glasses.

“Well, Father and I are ancient and will most certainly not be staying up until midnight, so we’ll say happy New Year to you now and see you in the morning.”

“Not too early, though!” Mr. Holmes chimed in with a wink for his son. John flushed. Dear god, he was in on it, too.

Then they were alone.

The fire popped and crackled as John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls again and again, feeling the hum of tension between them grow with every passing moment. He was almost certain, now. Certain Mummy had been right, that the barest nudge in the right direction would show him Sherlock’s heart. That the only thing keeping them apart were words.

“I know you’re in love with my son,” she’d said over the phone at Christmas. “When are you going to do something about it?”

John hadn’t wasted breath denying the observational powers of a Holmes. A melancholy calm had settled over his heart, and with a quick glance at Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, he’d replied, “It’s not quite that easy.”

“It is exactly that easy,” she’d said. “Put my boy out of his misery, John. You’ve had his heart for years, and I’ve grown quite tired of watching him wait for you.”

John’s heart had ached, had thumped hard as he looked to the bedroom door again, waiting to be caught.

“I’m quite sure it’s the other way around,” he’d admitted quietly. “I don’t think he’s interested in… relationships.”

“John Watson,” Mummy Holmes had snapped, and his spine had automatically straightened to attention. “I know my son. I watched him build that wall he uses to hide his heart as a young man. I know it for what it is. Armor. Protection, John. All he’s waiting for his a sign from you.”

He’d done his best to tamp down the painful swell of hope her words had stoked, but it was impossible. He’d become obsessed.

He’d texted her the next day.

_What if I need a sign from him, too?_

     Mrs. Holmes: _  
_ _Then you’ll have it. Get him here for New Year’s Eve. I’ll take care of the rest._

_You’re sure?_

     Mrs. Holmes:  
_Completely. Make my boy happy, John._

John had doubted he had any actual say in the matter. Mummy would push the issue anyway, no matter what.

But once the idea was in his head, he couldn’t let it go.

          _Okay._

_Okay, let’s do it. We’ll be there._

     Mrs. Holmes  
_Good man, Doctor. You’ll be thanking me at the new year._

And with a furtive glance at Sherlock, he’d deleted the text thread.

In the end, Mummy had barely needed to nudge them at all, it seemed. A romantic atmosphere, a shared bedroom and its implications, a few gifts—but most of all, the conversation they’d needed to have. Sherlock had dated before. John had been with men. Now Sherlock was melting under his fingertips with a purr John could feel through the cheek pressed against his knee, and he could already see how the night could end: confessions and shared breath and sweat and skin, _electric._ Inevitable.

It was a night where long-held questions got honest answers. So he asked.

“Did anything ever happen with Janine or Irene?”

Sherlock huffed and glared as best he could without dislodging John’s fingers.

“Honestly, John, you do know what gay means, yes?”

John flushed. “People have exceptions. Identities aren’t always completely rigid. People do things when they’re… confused, or vulnerable, or haven’t figured themselves out yet, or just make bad decisions. God knows I’ve done all of the above.”

“Have you now?” Sherlock said, eyebrow raise, and John tugged gently at the curls under his fingers.

“Hush, you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut, his lips parted in a silent gasp, and John’s cock twitched. _God,_ seeing Sherlock react, feeling him press harder against his leg, that mouth, those _lips…_

“No, John,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking straight into John’s. “I’ve never been with a woman and never will. I don’t think I _could,_ if you take my meaning. Absolutely no interest.”

John hummed an acknowledgement. It fit. Some base part of him curled up in satisfaction, unreasonably glad that neither Janine nor Irene had gotten their hands on Sherlock. His hand tensed in Sherlock’s hair, involuntarily, and Sherlock gasped again. Sherlock lifted a hand to trace the inside seam of John’s trousers at the knee, then slightly higher as he turned to talk, meeting John’s eyes again.

“What about you? Not gay?”

John shrugged, but didn’t look away. “Technically true. That’s the kind of rationalizing you do when your parents are… like mine.”

“But not straight, either. You’ve dated men.” His voice lowered. “Had sex with men.”

“I have. It didn’t go well at the time. Not the sex, that part was… hmm, more than fine. The dating part, I mean.” He traced a finger over the curve of Sherlock’s ear. Hesitated. “I think it’d go much better these days.”

Sherlock hid a smile against John’s leg, then looked up at John through his lashes.

“I was going to take you up to the roof for the strike of midnight. The stars are highly visible out here, and Sirius has its midnight culmination tonight. The time when it’s highest in the sky at midnight. Only comes once per year. I thought you’d like it. I learned the stars for you.”

John dragged his nails down the back of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock _shivered_ , arched and pressed his mouth to John’s thigh.

“We’re not going to make it to midnight, I think,” John murmured, repeating the motion. Sherlock let out a quiet groan and bit John’s thigh gently.

“No. We aren’t. Let’s go to bed.”

“Yes.”

One second Sherlock was pressed up against John’s leg, and the next he was on his knees between them, dragging his mouth slowly up John’s inseam with his eyes fixed on John’s. John gasped, squirming involuntarily as Sherlock continued his slow slide upward, barely ghosting over John’s fast-hardening cock, until his mouth hovered inches away from John’s. John wrapped a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and tugged lightly at the curls there, his other hand at the dip of Sherlock’s waist.

“You sure you don’t want to wait till midnight?” he murmured teasingly against Sherlock’s mouth. “That star thing was quite sweet.”

Sherlock nipped at John’s lower lip as punishment, then soothed it with the barest flick of his tongue.

“Oh, who cares. We’ve been waiting long enough.”

“Thank god,” John said.

He pulled Sherlock down, crushed their mouths together, and felt every stray, broken part of him snap into place.

_Finally._

Sherlock pushed up into the kiss with a desperate groan and climbed fully into John’s lap. John tugged at Sherlock’s curls again (quite possibly a new addiction), and Sherlock gasped against John’s mouth. Perfect opportunity; the kiss deepened, tongues curling in a hot, slow slide, one or the other or both of them humming and groaning and melding their bodies together.

Sherlock broke off with a gasp and pressed his forehead to John’s, eyes closed and the corner of his mouth curled into a smile. “ _Yes._ God, I’ve been in love with you for years, you know. Quite irritating. It’s about time.”

John’s heart flipped in his chest, and he grinned so hard he had to look away. “So sorry to inconvenience you.”

“You’ll make up for it.”

Sherlock captured John’s mouth again, but John held back, kept it slow, let it gentle into something sweet and lingering. A press. Again. The barest hint of tongue. A contented hum.

When John drew back again, he let the hand in Sherlock’s hair trace down his jawline, cup his cheek.

“I love you too. I should say. So much, Sherlock. God, I’ve wanted this with you. We’re going to be together now, right?

Sherlock drew back just far enough to nuzzle their noses together.

“Yes, John,” he whispered, sweet and serious. “Yes.”

Then he cupped John’s cock through his pants and smirked. “Right now, if I have any say in the matter.”

John jumped at the sudden touch and gasped, thrusting up against Sherlock’s hand, his own hands automatically pursuing his years-long fantasy of getting familiar with Sherlock’s glorious arse. He grabbed two handfuls and dragged Sherlock forward to press their cocks together, his head slamming back against the headrest.

“I… ahh… I thought we were going to bed?” he said with a groan.

“Too far. Here’s fine.”

“Your parents—”

“Know exactly what was going to happen, seeing as my mother orchestrated this whole thing with you, so they’ll have their white noise machine on.”

“Should have known we could never pull one over on you.”

“I forgive you for trying,” Sherlock said, then pulled a foil packet from the pocket of his pyjama bottoms and shoved it into John’s hand.

John looked down and blinked.

“When did… wait, you’ve seriously been sitting there with lube in your pocket for two hours? Before we even started playing cards?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

A beat of silence.

A suppressed snort.

Then they burst into giggles, wrapping arms around each other as they laughed and laughed, until the laughing turned to gasping, to grinding, to hands wandering and hot mouths demanding and _no more waiting._ Sherlock shoved his pyjama bottoms and pants down just far enough to give John access to his cock, then none-too-gently did the same for John. Cold air, warm body, Sherlock’s _naked arse, dear god._ John messily ripped open the packed of lube and drizzled it over their bare, sliding cocks, stroking them both together with his other hand as he went, until Sherlock snatched the lube away.

“Don’t use it all,” he said, sounding a bit breathless, then poured the rest over the fingers of John’s unoccupied hand. That accomplished, he threw the packet aside, wrapped his arms around John’s neck, and canted his hips forward, thrusting into John’s fist. The feel of Sherlock’s cock gliding across his nearly wiped his brain clean blank—but not so blank that he didn’t pick up on Sherlock’s unspoken request. He trailed the fingers of his other hand from the small of Sherlock’s back, down, _down,_ skipping to ghost over Sherlock’s perineum, then back to circle his hole with gentlest pressure.

“There’s not really enough lube for that, Sherlock,” he panted, trailing hot breath over Sherlock’s absurdly long neck. Sherlock whined and pressed back into his searching fingers.

“That’s for round two. Just fingers now. I’ve always wanted you in me, John, please, just—ah!”

It was self-defense, truly. If Sherlock had kept talking, John would have come on the spot. As it was, the _slick-hot-tight-glorious_ feel of Sherlock squeezing around his finger nearly did it anyway. The angle was awful, and his wrist hurt almost immediately, but John would have sooner marched back onto a battlefield in Afghanistan than stop the slide of his finger inside Sherlock. It was impossible to seek out his prostate, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care, just begged for another finger and moaned at the stretch. He leaned back until he was nearly sitting up straight, riding John’s fingers like his life depended on it, eyes closed and head thrown back in total abandon.

It was a marvel. A revelation. Sherlock caught between his two hands, two fingers buried deep in his arse and a fist wrapped around their cocks, writhing and moaning and chasing his release with tiny pants of _ah, ah, ah._ Every noise went straight to the burning pool of crackling tension at the base of John’s spine, and he squeezed them both tighter as Sherlock’s thrusts sped, faster, faster, shoving forward into John’s fist and back onto his fingers again and again until a groan tore itself from his throat and his come spilled over John’s hand, his shirt, his _cock. Sherlock’s come was on his cock._

And that did it. A surge of pleasure, a crash, an electric rush, his own come mixing with Sherlock’s in his hand. Sherlock collapsed against him, his mouth seeking John’s immediately and swallowing down every groan, giving his own pleased hum in return.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, again and again. “Yes, John. Gorgeous.”

Their breathing slowed, but Sherlock only melted into him further, nuzzling, caressing. When John finally let his fingers slip free, Sherlock made a small noise of displeasure and squeezed him even tighter.

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock murmured. “Please, John.”

John kissed him in agreement, long and slow, his heart full to bursting, and lifted a hand to weave into Sherlock’s curls—but caught himself just in time.

“Ugh,” he said, pulling back to glance between his two hands, chagrined. “Maybe a shower first?”

Sherlock’s low chuckle warmed him from the inside, prompting another kiss. “Only if I can join you.”

“Hmm, yes,” John said. “Get you ready for round two, yeah? You have more lube?”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened all over again.

“There’s plenty. Come on,” he said, sliding off John’s lap. He let his pyjama bottoms fall to the floor, stripped his shirt off, stared straight into John’s eyes... then turned and walked away. John’s gaze followed him the whole way to the stairs, the sway of his hips, _that arse—_

“You coming?”

John wrenched his eyes from Sherlock’s arse to his shining eyes and wicked, laughing mouth.

“Absolutely,” he said, shedding his own clothes on the way.

They’d pick them up in the new year.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There's one more fic in this holiday triptych, but it'll likely be several months before I can get to it. Subscribe to me here or follow me on tumblr at [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) for updates. If you liked this one, please consider scrolling through [my other works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/works)! I need to go on hiatus again for a while, and I'll miss you all terribly, but I promise there'll be more eventually.
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


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